


the moss that grows in the shade

by kalypsobean



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 01:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: Thranduil doesn't have the magic of the Elder Days within his reach, not like the Noldor with their Rings and faith in the Light.





	the moss that grows in the shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AwayLaughing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/gifts).



It is always dark in the Mirkwood now, a shadow that forever sits at the edge of his awareness, pressing in as if his crown, too, was shrinking, folding in on itself as if to keep the darkness from erupting. It is that very blackness that is familiar to him, so much so that he welcomes the pain. 

It is his sacrifice for the powers he must now wield, the power of the earth beneath and around him, of nature around and above him. 

 

If he closes his eyes, he can hear the creaking of the trees as they shift their long-dormant branches to shield his people's paths from the tread of outsiders. If he then dulls his hearing, he can feel the winds that no longer carry the sun's warmth, and the chill that drives the animals in his care towards the caves, seeking shelter. The caves, stoic though rocks may be, have a voice too; they reflect the warmth of his hearthfire and lure any who are strayed, until his prisons are full of interlopers and his people know the faces of the threat which creeps towards them, drawn like poisoned water to a well.

 

It is all as Thranduil wills it, and his will rules all. He cannot turn the darkness away with light stolen from the Undying Lands, and his people would not abide him if he wielded such a weapon; it is in turning the shadow against itself that he must place his faith, but he keeps the cost to himself. Even the weight of that burden is a weapon, for his knowledge of it allows him to direct it at will, if he cannot mobilise against it; the pain it serves him is intelligence his forces could not gather without loss, though their victories bring him relief, scant though it may be. 

 

It is such that he feels he can direct the Wood itself against the scourge, though it is a line he struggles not to cross; the caves provide him no succor, and he stays only for that is where he is most in control, most able to understand the words whispered on traitorous winds. They promise him relief, the return of what was lost in recompense for turning his power to the West. 

 

But Thranduil stays, ever more secretive, ever more alone, for he knows that it is not long until the East will burn, and he must only endure.


End file.
